Sleepless
by Phenomonist
Summary: Mulder and Scully have been taking cases nonstop and neither of them is getting much rest. Is it really the constant traveling that's keeping them up at night or each other? The story is better than the summary. Mulder/Scully. Rated T...for now.


**Disclaimer: I don't own The X-Files, Mulder, Scully or anything else in this fic. Rub it in.**

This is my first fanfiction I am posting and there will be more chapters to come. Please excuse any typos! I typed this a little late. I love the relationship between Mulder and Scully and I am a devoted X-Phile. Please, please, please review! Every review is appreciated. The more reviews, the faster I update! Heh heh :D

P.S. Not much goes on here, just some inner musings! More stuff in later chapters!

Neither of them had been sleeping well and they both knew it. Each night they spent at a new motel that continually skimped the Bureau's budget, and each night Fox Mulder and Dana Scully laid silently in the dark with tired, heavy eyes that refused to close. Perhaps it was the physical and mental stress of so many back to back cases. In the past week alone they'd been dragged to Washington, California, Montana, Texas and Iowa—each state requiring at least one overnight stay.

Scully had never been into travel in the first place—atleast, not until she joined the X-Files division. Now, she was lucky if she went five days without being introduced to some rundown town in the middle of nowhere, boasting proudly how they were "The #1 Wheat Growers in America!" and "Home of The Cornhusks!" Why were farmers so much more susceptible to encounters of the extraterrestrial kind than, say, a man living in an upscale New York penthouse who just happened to support the agents' night at some ritzy hotel?

Mulder didn't mind as much. He wasn't nervous about flying and didn't despise long drives as much as his partner, though they definitely were not on the top of his _Fun Things To Do on a Saturday Night_ list. Lately, however, the constant migration had taken its toll. That's what he thought it was. It was equally upsetting to find each of their most recent cases turning out to be duds. Hoaxes. Fakes. Since when had their reputation boasted the qualification to deal with hopeless alcoholics who probably saw UFOs every time they visited the local bar and pounded back a few too many shots?

No matter what it was, the facts still jumped out. They were not sleeping and exhaustion was a dangerous thing in their line of work. Especially considering the vast amount of hits they were likely to acquire; exposing government conspiracies tends to make you an unlikeable party for the wealthy and powerful behind said conspiracies.

Their insomnia was beginning to show, too. Scully was less argumentative, and while most might believe Mulder would be relieved, he was anything but. She wasn't herself if she wasn't challenging everything he said—and let's face it, he needed the criticism and constant verbal ass-kickings to keep him in line. If it weren't for Scully, he probably would have been killed years ago by his own temerity.

Still, much in the same fashion was Mulder's watered down theories and lack of enthusiasm. His passion wasn't gone, merely . . . dulled by lack of rest. Scully was surprised enough to find a part of her missing his irrational behavior. As much as Mulder needed someone watching his back when he was acting out of line, she needed to be there for him to balance _herself_ out, too. Yeah, it didn't make much sense to her, either.

So there they were, separated by the standard-issue, paper thin walls of yet another crappy motel. They always got rooms directly next to each other—it was just easier. Once, they'd gone through a particularly awkward morning after they'd spent the night with a couple of newlyweds in the room between theirs. Let's just say they hadn't slept for a multitude of reasons other than insomnia, most of them loud and vulgar reasons.

Mulder was lying on his back, the covers kicked onto the floor in frustration, staring at the ceiling in disdain and thinking about how Scully must be doing the exact same thing. He tried to picture her in his mind's eyes; how she'd be sprawled across her own bed in annoyance, piercing blue eyes hazy from exhaustion. Was she wearing her blue silk pajamas, the ones that were secretly Mulder's favorite? He closed his eyes fruitlessly and pictured this. In his helpless, bored mind she stretched—as she often did when tired—and the top rose ever-so-slightly to reveal an inch of ivory skin. He wanted to touch it just then, an urge only his partner could induce in him so forcefully, overwhelming his senses in the form of a crashing wave. Scully always smelled nice . . . but how would she taste? Somehow he knew none of his mind's concoctions could compete with what the real thing must be like. How many times had he filled his time as an insomniac with wonderings of kissing Dana Scully? But the rational part of his brain always shut him off, chiding that it was wrong to think of his partner and best friend in such a way. For she was his best friend now—probably his only friend—and he was not ashamed to admit it. Sometimes he wondered why she put up with him so long. Did he deserve someone as loyal and trusting and beautiful and tempting—stop. Where the hell was this going? You see, he couldn't even go two minutes without reverting back to his shameful nature. Scully would kick his ass if she could see the things running through his head half the time he was around her.

Then again, would she? For there was still a large half of his mind that was most certainly _not_ of the sexual nature and in his philosophy, he was doing better than most guys. Many men had sex on the mind about 90% of the time. Cutting it down to 50% had to be an accomplishment, right?

Of course, Mulder didn't dwell on this other half too often. The thoughts there confused him, eluded him—and if he were to be truly honest with himself—scared the shit out of him, too. These thoughts were not ones to linger but rather popped up at the strangest of times. For instance, the other day Mulder had merely placed a guiding hand on the small of his partner's back, leading her out of the small diner they'd eaten at when he noticed a man a little older than himself eyeing his Scully with less than honorable intentions. There probably weren't words to describe the magnitude of irrational anger that had coarsed through his veins at that moment, added to another emotion he'd been attacked by lately. Jealousy. His reaction had shown, and Scully had asked what was wrong. His anger melted to embarrassment. He couldn't even form a response.

And this was all before he realized he'd inwardly referred to his friend as _his_ Scully.

Yes, he tried to steer clear of this portion of his mind, but that only left the side that thought sex was as acceptable to think about as wondering if he'd called his mother lately or pondering the next basketball game. This was not an option when he spent so much time with his partner, his best friend, his weakness as of late. And most of the time they were alone. Wonderful.

As Mulder released a heavy and frustrated sigh, Scully was in the next room over with a look of pure torture plastered to her face. She'd suffered from lack of sleep before but never to this extent. In the past week she'd probably gotten a total of 20 hours of sleep. She'd thought back and counted. How pitiful. Her hand slid off her stomach and hit the bed with a thud. Atleast she wasn't too hot—her blue, silk pajamas always kept her cool at night. One of the reasons they were her favorite.

The tired woman absently wondered if her sleeping would return to normal when she was finally in her own bed, between her own sheets, with her heavy head on her own fluffy pillow. Annoyingly, she felt this would not be the case. What could be keeping her up? She wasn't _too_ stressed—atleast not more than average. She was convinced, from a medical view point, that the constant traveling had been her downfall. Maybe in the morning she would talk to Mulder about taking a break from cases, atleast just for a few days, long enough for her to recuperate and find out if this case of insomnia was going to need medical attention.

Mulder. A subject that had wriggled its way into her thoughts more often than not lately, especially when sleep was eluding her. She knew he was not cured from his own sleeplessness on account of some recent miracle, and he was probably a mirror image of herself at this very moment. She really, _really_ wanted to get up, knock on his door and chat. She wasn't sure why this urge presented itself, especially now of all times. It was two in the morning!

She imagined doing just that so many times and it always ended up the same. The results of her musings and fantasies always made her ashamed for thinking of her partner in such ways. She'd even made herself blush on more than one lonely occasion when she thought about the things she'd rather be doing than lying on dark bed in some sleazy motel. And who she'd rather be doing them with. Though, perhaps, the sleazy motel part could stay. They _were_ already in the right place . . .

It was preposterous, she knew, but her brain didn't care. She let her thoughts carry her away. Maybe if she gave in she would be allowed to sleep. Yeah, right. Scully couldn't even muster up the hope. It was always the same. She would get up and travel the short distance to her partner's room. He'd answer the door, more than happy to let her in, and they'd talk about how they wished they could sleep and then other things. Trivial, pointless things. Sports, Skinner, old movies, new music (though neither of them was current on anything), even going as far as discussing the pros and cons of Italian versus Mexican food. Still, despite the bland conversation, it always ended in one of two ways. Both wound up with sleep overtaking her and her fantasy self was grateful, but it was the actions in between that made the red-haired woman confused.

She wasn't sure which confused her more. The first option, where Scully ended up falling asleep in Mulder's arms—harmless enough yet confusing in the comfort and safety that encompassed her in the man's embrace—or the second, where . . . a little bit more than cuddling ensued. Just thinking about it made her once cool silk pajamas seem a little hotter, a tad bit constricting. She frowned at her foolishness. She hadn't acted like this since she was sixteen and had developed her first real crush on another navy kid, a mild-mannered boy who lived on the same base as her. All in all, they'd moved away before anything could develop, but the feelings were the same. If not intensified. She wondered how Mulder could elicit those same confounding feelings in her chest and lower, yet turn it up ten fold. You'd think the human body had a limit.

Whatever. She wasn't getting any sleep tonight. That was for sure. She prepared herself for another disappointing night of wakefulness before a knock startled her from the solidity. It was quiet, knowing. The person on the other side knew she would be awake at this hour, yet still left it as it was just in case, by some miracle, she had fallen asleep and they wished to leave her be. She rose from the bed and padded to the door, hesitating from reaching for the knob, her paranoia reminding her it could be anyone. She _knew_ who it was, but went through the formalities anyway.

"Who is it?" She called out without a hint of sleep in her voice.

"It's me." Ah, the only one who could get away with something like that. "Wanna go swimming?"


End file.
